


blueshift

by presumenothing (justjoy)



Series: wavelength [2]
Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:47:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/presumenothing
Summary: “It’s my file from the CBI,” Lisbon answers anyway, turning her chair to face him. “I asked Abbott a while back if he was still holding on to any of our old stuff, he said he’d look around for me. Gave me that yesterday afternoon.”(or: a series of FBI-era oneshots)





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s my file from the CBI,” Lisbon answers anyway, turning her chair to face him. “I asked Abbott a while back if he was still holding on to any of our old stuff, he said he’d look around for me. Gave me that yesterday afternoon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (aka: the surprise attack of an old fandom just to round out the year, because why not)
> 
> set sometime mid-s6, et cetera

“Oh, you _didn’t_ ,” Jane says when he finds the manila folder lying on his couch one morning, plain and unremarkable.

It’s early enough that they’re pretty much the only two people around, at least in this corner of the office – Cho would’ve usually been here by this hour too, really, except that Jane had already spotted the telltale signs of a late night spent at his desk, which means that he’ll probably be about fifteen minutes later than his usual.

“It’s my file from the CBI,” Lisbon answers anyway, turning her chair to face him. “I asked Abbott a while back if he was still holding on to any of our old stuff, he said he’d look around for me. Gave me that yesterday afternoon.”

Neither of them mention the high likelihood that the only reason this file hadn’t been gathering dust or worse in some FBI evidence archive was because of the manhunt for _him_. It’s obvious, anyhow.

Jane has to briefly juggle the three mugs he’s holding before he manages to hand the middle one to her and set the first one down near the edge of her desk, then sits down to sip at his own. He doesn’t touch the file, not yet. “And you’re giving it to me?”

Lisbon shrugs slightly. “I read your file back when I got the Red John case, you know I did. We all did.”

“And when I joined the CBI, too,” he adds, half under his breath, but Lisbon still nods.

It’s true, after all. The two files might have looked nothing alike, barely even _seemed_ to be describing the same person, but she’d needed everything she could find on Patrick Jane back then, as the apparent hyperfixation of a serial killer and then (also) as a surprise addition to her team.

Jane finally sets his tea aside to pick up the file – opens it, even, but his gaze stays on hers, without even a flicker down to the first page. “So this is a fair trade? Quid pro quo?”

“Something like that,” Lisbon hedges, since truth be told _she_ doesn’t quite know what she’s doing either. That’s hardly a new feeling, though, around Jane.

“Ah. Well,” Jane says with a tilt of his head, before closing the folder with an abrupt snap and tossing it back to her. “I’ll pass.”

Lisbon almost fumbles the catch at that, even as Jane reclaims his teacup and flops down on the couch in one motion, somehow managing not to spill anything in the process.

Honestly. Sometimes she really doesn’t think she’ll ever understand the man, but then again they haven’t worked together this long for a want of flexibility on her part.

“Your loss, then,” she retorts right back, sticking the folder back into the deep recesses of her desk drawer and shoving it closed.

“Eh. Half the fun’s in figuring things out anyway, you know that,” Jane replies airily.

Lisbon rolls her eyes, but the elevator dings before she can say anything further.

Jane’s hand is already up in a vague (if jaunty) wave before she can even look over, though she recognises Cho’s solid tread a split second later. “Cho, hey.”

“Morning, Lisbon. Jane,” Cho pauses, and Lisbon turns her chair back to catch his glance at the mug sitting on her desk, steam still rising steadily from it – coffee, not tea, as she now realises. “That for me?”

“Of course,” Jane agrees readily, as Cho and Lisbon exchange a wordless question ( _did he–? yes_ ) and a shrug. “Don’t suppose you brought any pastries? No, I know you didn’t, just a rhetorical question.”

“Rhetorical doughnuts,” Cho deadpans into his drink. “Right.”

 

* * *

 

(Neither of them speak about the file any further, after that. It stays in her drawer, and she knows that _he_ knows where it is, and he knows that _she_ knows, and Lisbon vaguely remembers the days when this sort of thing used to give her headaches. Not anymore, though, and if he _had_ ended up reading it at some point there hadn’t been any sign of it, which makes her inclined to think that he hasn’t.

Either way she doesn’t even think about it until many months later, when she’s packing up her desk for the move to DC, and Lisbon stares at the – still closed – folder for far too long before stuffing it even deeper into the boxes before Jane can notice.

It’s too late for that, anyway.)

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Though if you’d asked me to name somewhere likely to have tea meeting _your_ standards, the FBI breakroom certainly wouldn’t have been high on the list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more earlyish/mid-s6 fic!! precedes the previous chapter

“Tea, Lisbon?”

“I’m good, thanks,” she answers, but her gaze automatically flicks up to Jane’s face anyway; the great big dictionary of Jane expressions contains a substantial section on tea, indexed between the many trips they’d made for cases and the boxes of teabags that appeared mysteriously in the CBI pantry whenever a certain consultant was around. “Though if you’d asked me to name somewhere likely to have tea meeting _your_ standards, the FBI breakroom certainly wouldn’t have been high on the list.”

Lisbon recognises the briefest rise of Cho’s shoulders which means that he’s hiding a laugh, even though he’s by all appearances hard at work typing up some report at the desk in front of hers. “Well, you’d be right,” he says when she turns to look at him, without elaborating.

She glances consideringly at Jane again, the clear lack of any possessions beyond his clothes, the contentment practically curling steam from his cup. Surely he hadn’t _brought_ –?

“Nah,” Jane says, presumably in response to the question she hadn’t even asked. “ _This_ is just from Agent Cho’s personal stash, which everyone else is too afraid to touch for fear of being challenged to a death match on the spot.”

“No comment,” Cho replies, and “Violence against co-workers is against FBI guidelines.”

“Hm. Arm-wrestling match?” Jane offers instead, teacup clinking against the saucer – and really, who even stocks teacups with _saucers_ in an office pantry? (Lisbon isn’t even sure that the blue teacup existed within CBI’s walls before Jane happened, now that she thinks on it.)

“Against Abbott?” Cho frowns, hits backspace a couple times. “Sure, be my guest.”

Jane tilts his head, an acknowledgement of the point; Lisbon says, a little wonderingly, “I didn’t even _know_ you liked tea.”

“Don’t need to like it to drink it,” comes the answer, but this time Cho actually stops typing and turns around to meet both their looks with a raised eyebrow. “What? Can’t just have coffee all the time, I’m not risking a caffeine overdose.”

“Huh. Funny, that’s not what you used to say,” Lisbon tells him with a careful lack of amusement, because she’s now also remembering that hers hadn’t been the only desk in the CBI that Jane had hovered over like a recalcitrant cat bearing gifts: mugs, murderers, and far too many headaches to count.

Jane shrugs in an elaborate manner Lisbon chooses to interpret as dismay at them having uncovered his dastardly scheme to slowly convert all of law enforcement into tea-lovers, before he floats off, tea still in hand, in search of something – someone new to heckle, possibly, or maybe just a couch.

Not her problem, anyway, or at least not her responsibility to account for. Even if he arm-wrestles someone over upholstery.

It’s a blissful feeling not being in charge for once, she decides, even as she rolls her chair closer to Cho’s desk. “Anything I can help with?”

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> this show has one of my faves since it first aired, but somehow i've never written for it, go figure. comments welcome!


End file.
